Scholarly Pursuits
by Cantique
Summary: The new scholar to arrive in Edoras does NOT get along with King Eomer. She finds him boorish and cocky, and he finds her pretentious and humorless. But when he discovered she can't ride a horse, things get... I'm bad at writing summaries. But there's totally sex eventually. It'll be hot as heck. Promise. Eomer/OC post War of the Ring. SHAMELESS WISH FULFILLMENT INSIDE
1. Informalities

Gilraen could already tell that Rohan would _not_ be her favorite expedition.

She had been assigned two weeks ago, and _everything _since she had departed for Edoras had gone wrong. First, the wheel of the carriage transporting her came away, and they had been delayed by an entire day, in the rain, under a soggy cloth in the cold. Not long after, she was robbed while staying at an inn, and although nothing of great value was stolen, she did find herself missing more than half the coin she was provided by the Scholars.

Once she arrived at the border of Edoras, she was informed, quite uncouthly, that the driver would merely be passing by. Gilraen was to get out and make her way up the hills, alone, dragging the sack of her belongings behind her – and given the amount of books she was required to bring with her, it was _not_ light.

As she dragged her things up the hill and through the town, she tried to ignore the townspeople who stared at her. She was, after all, one of the Gondorian Scholars, and she supposed it was rare to see women travelling alone. She was also dragging a large sack up a hill, alone, and was, despite her best efforts, struggling with it. Greatly. She could see the Palace, which was up an even steeper climb, and felt her stomach sink. She was a day late, was to meet with the King of Rohan to discuss her assignment and would be tired, messy and sweaty.

"You seem to be struggling," a voice suddenly spoke from beside her, causing her to jump. "May I be of assistance?" The voice belonged to a man in armour, the tether of a horse in one hand as he led the beast beside him. A member of The Mark. She gave a polite smile, shaking head head.

"I thank you, but I can manage, I assure you-"

It was too late, however, as the Horse Lord had already taken her bag of things in his arms. With little to no effort, he hauled it over the back of his horse, who didn't even flinch. "That should be well for a short trip. Where do you travel?"

"The Palace," Gilraen replied, stuttering a little at the suddenness with which he chose to help her. "I.. thank you. This is very kind. ...And unexpected."

"It is of no trouble. I am heading that way myself, and I couldn't leave a Gondorian Lady to carry such heavy things by herself."

She blinked, raising an eyebrow. "How did you know I'm from Gondor?"

The man gave a smile. "Your coloring. You may not have noticed, but the Ladies of Rohan do not have your dark hair."

"I could be from the North," she suggested.

"From Dale? Perhaps," he mused, glancing to her once more. "But Dalish women are famous for their freckles, a trait which _you _seem to be lacking... not that you're at disadvantage for it. What kind of Nobleman sends such a daughter to Edoras _alone?_"

"Oh, you are mistaken, Sir," she laughed, blushing a little and sweeping some hair behind her ear. She'd heard stories about the Horse Lords, lots of stories. Charming, strong, passionate men with a thirst for danger and no fear – and no one in Gondor _ever_ spoke to her like this. "I am no Lady. I am a Scholar."

"A Scholar?" He repeated, blinking. "I did not know the Gondorian Scholars had women in their ranks."

"They have many, but very seldom do they study in the field."

"Yet you are an exception?" He glanced to her, a playful, almost cheek smirk about him. Gilraen couldn't help but lose herself for a moment. She had been warned to be wary of the Horse Lords, of course, as all women were by their elders, but never had see been so drawn by a gaze. It was intense, almost fiery. She wondered what he was thinking to look at someone like that – and when she put two and two together, she quickly looked away. Of course. There were stories about Horse Lords for _a reason._

"I have spent many years working very hard," she explained. "I speak three tongues, not including the common speech, and read four. I have acted as assistant on more than a dozen of my senior's field studies, and I have transcribed more of the Rohirric material in our archives than any of my male counterparts - and _that_ is why I was assigned here." She glanced to him quickly.

"What kind of assignment?" He asked. "If I am permitted to ask."

"King Elessar desires the archives be updated and that all cultures within the Reunited Kingdom be re-recorded. Everything from their histories to their family trees to their culture. ...And I am _not_ an exception," she added. "I am the first of what will be many."

The man laughed to himself as they approached the Palace in less than half the time it would have taken her alone. "You will fit in well here, then. The women of The Mark are the strongest in the Kingdoms."

"As I am told. I spoke with Lady Eowyn shortly before I left. Her valour is known to many."

"And what did Lady Eowyn tell you of her brother?" He asked.

"Of King Eomer?" Gilraen laughed to herself, giving a nod as she glanced to the him. "That he has a temper."

The man raised an eyebrow. "A temper, you say?"

"Well, yes. His temper is known throughout the Kingdoms already, but Lady Eowyn insisted that he is quite hotheaded, if not stubborn." She exhaled as they came to a stop by the front of the palace. "I certainly hope he is not as stubborn as she says he is. I have so much work to do, and so little time to spend arguing."

They arrived by the guards, who quickly approached the horse, taking the things from the back. The man gave a nod to them both, handing his horse's tether to one of them before speaking, his voice, lower, more official and stern. "See to it that the Scholar's things are seen to her chambers at once, and ready me some mead. Today's ride was long and I wish to rest."

"Of course, King Eomer." With a quick nod, the guard carried the sack of things inside, his companion leading the horse away.

Gilraen froze on the spot, staring at the Horse Lord, her mouth agape. "K-King... Eomer?" She repeated, unsure if she should curtsey or not, her face flushed red.

Eomer smirked at her once more, giving her a quick nod. "It was good to meet you, Scholar," he quickly spoke, before heading inside, shaking his head. Gilraen stayed where she was, fixed to the spot, eyes wide.

This did _not_ bode well.

* * *

_Really short chapter to open, I'm sorry! D: But I just wanted to get the ball rolling. _


	2. Knowingly Deceptive

The halls were loud, there was mead everywhere and the men seemed to do nothing at night but shout and drink. Gilraen has been entirely right about Rohan.

Two days she had been there, and she was _still_ to meet with their King again, despite having in writing that he would grant her audience on arrival – if he thought their brief exchange on the way to the Palace was going to suffice, he was sorely mistaken. Her research was not as important to those who weren't of scholarly pursuits, she could understand that, however, this was just plain _rudeness._

And now she stood before him, her blood silently boiling beneath her skin at the way he addressed her. An eyebrow raised, slouched in his throne and seemingly not listening to a word she was saying.

"King Eomer," she asked, trying her best to sound somewhat cordial. She'd spent most of her life following Scholars of seniority to her, and this was the first expedition she'd ever led – speech was not quite her strong point yet. "As I was saying before you were... distracted, I need access to the crypts."

"Right," he spoke quickly, his mind obviously completely elsewhere. "Forgive me, but... why do you need to venture into the crypts, exactly?"

It was all that Gilraen could do to stop herself from giving a groan of frustration, instead choosing to close her eyes and take a deep breath. "I need to take records and inventory of what's inside, Your Grace."

"And what _is_ inside?" He asked. "Apart from the bones of my ancestors?"

"...We do not know, Your Grace. Hence why I need your permission to-"

"Forgive me," he interrupted, Gilraen's lips pursing at his rudeness, "but... _who_ are you? We've met, but your name escapes me."

Her jaw tensed. Surely he was testing her patience now. She'd introduced herself when she'd entered his halls. Nonetheless, though, she was bound to answer him. "You never asked me for it, Your Grace. It's Gilraen. I am the Historian assigned by scholars of Gondor to record the history of the Rohirrim, as well as their way of life and-"

"_Yes, _yes, you told me all about that." Eomer cut her off once more. "How long will you be staying?"

Giving a short, sharp exhale, Gilraen continued. "I will be here for the next year or so, Your Grace, unless I am recalled sooner. As stated in the assignment letter, which you will note has been authorised by King Elessar, there will be times where your assistance will be required." Her words were getting blunter now. Gilraen just wanted to go back to the library, away from the rowdy Horse Lords and rude King.

"A woman who is a travelling scholar, wishing to enter somewhere as dark and frightening as our crypts," he mused, giving a long nod, "a novelty, indeed."

"I assure you," her hands balled into fists beneath the cover of her sleeves as she spoke, "I am more than qualified and able."

Eomer shrugged in his throne, a small smile suddenly appearing. "I would never suggest you weren't. If the War of the Ring has taught us anything, it is that women are not to be underestimated... I was simply making an observance, Gilly. You seem young for a _scholar.__"_

"I'm 23 Summers, but I have spent the better part of my life in the service of the Gondorian Scholars." Gilraen paused. "And my name is _not_ Gilly. It's Gilraen."

"Probably better that you're younger," Eomer declared, straightening himself in his throne and reaching for his cup. "These are not lands for the old men of your libraries to study, their bones wouldn't take it, I suspect. Although, that's probably why they sent you. Tell me, do you speak the Rohirric tongue?"

"Yes. As well as the elvish and dwarven."

"And what can you read?" He asked. Gilraen raised an eyebrow at this unexpected question. "You mentioned before you can read _four."_

"...The Black Speech," she responded, very hesitantly, "I do not speak it, but I am able to read."

"Good," he spoke with a suddenly strong voice, one that took her back a little. "We have many artefacts recovered during the war, perhaps you may be of use."

Gilraen closed her eyes once more. She was _not_ here to help them translate Black Speech from the prizes of war. She was here to transcribe their history, record their family trees, observe their ways of life and take inventory of their unique treasures before, hopefully, returning to Gondor within the year. She also couldn't help but feel a little betrayed that he had deceived her at first. Imagine the faux pas she could have made, the offence she could have caused! She wondered how long he would have continued had no one addressed him by his title. "Of course, Your Grace," she spoke from between gritted teeth. "I will assist when time permits."

He leaned forward, resting his cup back down before looking her in the eyes, that same fire in his eyes. "You were much more interesting to speak to before you learned I was King. I would not wish you to be intimidated."

"I assure you, Your Grace, I am _not_ intimidated," she replied.

"Then why so cold?" He asked. "The Scholar I helped with her belongings was much more receptive. Have I somehow offended you?"

Gilraen's eyes drifted upwards to meet his. "Are you asking for my honest opinion?" Gilraen watched as Eomer gave a nod, leaning back into his seat, waiting for her to speak. "First and foremost," she began, "while I may have appreciated your assistance, I do _not_ appreciate the way you knowingly deceived me."

"Knowingly deceived you?" He gave a snort of laughter. "If you had asked for my name, I would have given it!"

"You asked me Lady Eowyn's opinion of you as though you were someone else. If that is not deceptive, I don't know what is."

"And you would not do the same?" He asked. "Surely you are not _that_ without humour."

"Do you jest?" Gilraen gave a long blink. "You are a King. It is humiliating for me to have been so casual with you."

Eomer's eyebrows rose, and moments passed until he spoke. "You need to smile once in a while. It would not kill you to do so. It may actually help with how unpleasant you are."

Gilraen took a deep breath, scowling. After a short silence, she spoke softly, but not in gentle tones. She spoke in notes that gave away a simmering rage beneath. "If that is all, King Eomer, I will return to my studies now and begin my cataloguing of the crypts tomorrow."

"You are more than excused."

Before he even finished speaking, Gilraen gathered her skirts from the floor and stormed out of his halls, not looking back to so much as glance at him. There was very little she hated more than being chided for being 'too serious.' She was not _too serious,_ she merely had her mind and heart trained on her work, which was far more important to her than any possible songs or parties. If she dabbled in that, she would not be taken seriously, and Gilraen had worked _far_ too hard to relinquish that.

* * *

"Are you really going to read all of these?"

Gilraen had been enjoying the day until then. She had started with a walk through the crypts, assessing what she would and wouldn't need to properly catalogue them. She'd need a good amount of oil for the torches, but otherwise it seemed relatively safe spare for the spiders. The rest of her day had been dedicated to translation of the historical archives, something that was, until very recently, done in peace and quiet. "Yes," she exhaled. "It would be why I am _here._"

"And you never tire of the dust?" Eomer asked, pacing about behind her, curiously running his finger over the cover of one of the many books she'd gathered. "Of the smell?"

She rolled her eyes, dipping her quill in her ink and continuing to write. "I am a Scholar, Your Grace. It is my life." A moment passed as she finished writing the sentence she was translating. "And I quite happen to enjoy the scent of books, thank you."

"But you are a scholar who travels. Do you not ever wish to actually _see_ the places you find yourself?"

"Not really."

"And how do you propose to truly grasp out culture if you don't experience it?"

At this, Gilraen froze. Damnit. _Damnit_ he was right. Tilting her head and doing her best to avoid a sigh, she began to write again. "Perhaps you are right, Your Grace," she admitted. "However, my studies require that I-"

"It has been suggested that you visit the Field of Celebrant, Gilly."

She gritted her teeth as he spoke, patiently waiting for him to finish before she took her turn. "I dearly wish that you would stop speaking over the top of me... and my name is _not_ Gilly... but yes, that is rather significant."

Gilraen could almost _feel_ him roll his eyes behind her. "You could hold your excitement," Eomer jibbed. "We will ride tomorrow morning, then. Get you outdoors. There is a monument you may wish to transcribe."

She paused, looking away from her writing for the first time, actually turning to look to the Horse Lord, who was leaning against a bookcase, his arms crossed as he watched her. "We?" She repeated. "There's no need for you to come."

"Of course there is." Eomer pushed away from the bookcase, beginning to pace again, looking up at the books the lined the library's walls all the way to it's ceilings. "I am King and you are a guest sent to my kingdom on behalf of King Elessar. I will accompany you." He then began to leave the library, walking up the few steps that lead to the door. "I'll arrange a horse for you, be ready to leave early morning, and _try_ to be less draining. Whatever that may take."

Now alone, Gilraen stared at the piled books in front of her, her heart racing, the ink of her quill dripping onto her parchment as her mind drew a total blank.

Gilraen didn't know how to ride a horse.


	3. Lesson One

Eomer wasn't looking forward to the rest of the day. He didn't like this Scholar at all. When he had agreed to Aragorn's suggestion that the kingdoms and lands all allow Scholars to research their history, he'd thought they would be receiving an old man like every _other_ Scholar he'd seen – not an insufferable young woman like Gilraen, devoid of any humour.

It was a shame, he thought as he packed his horse that morning, that she had all the personality of a horseshoe. She was _far_ from ugly, physically, at least – but although he had been caught by the sight of her when he spotted her at first in Edoras, struggling with a sack of what he assumed was nothing but books, her barbed tongue and utter disdain for almost anything that wasn't written down had quickly done away with that.

Actually, thinking about it a little more, he decided it was a bit of a waste. She had the dark hair and bright skin of Gondorian women that he enjoyed to look at so much, and while she was not a delicately framed noblewoman, the shapes that he noticed in the curves of her dress were quite pleasant, indeed. Had she remained the woman whom he'd helped with her things, he may have even pursued her a little. Not that he thought she may have been wife material, but she would be here for a year or more, and her bed would no doubt get cold during the winter...

But no, she wasn't anything he enjoyed now. Her bed could freeze solid for all he cared – and it probably would if she didn't learn to allow herself to enjoy the offerings of life once in a while.

As he spotted her waiting beside their horses, he wondered if perhaps this had been the reason that she became a Scholar in the first place. The Scholars of Gondor weren't known to be the most social of creatures, some of them remaining in period of study for years at a time without venturing into the outside world. He couldn't decide if she'd been pushed into it due to her lack of social skills or if she'd volunteered to. Probably the latter. She was, for all he loathed about her, smart enough to make such a decision.

"She is yours for as long as you remain in Rohan," he announced, glancing to the horse as she carefully stroked its mane, a curiosity on her face as though she'd never _seen_ a horse before. "Consider it a gift."

He began to secure the saddle of his own, trying to think of ways to make this shorter. If they rode quickly without break, they could make it back before sundown... but Eomer was unsure if she was that skilled a rider. In fact...

Glancing to her, he completely stopped what he was doing when he spotted her hesitantly touching the stirrup, her face in a strange contortion he'd not yet seen on her before. It was... fear? "Are you alright?" He asked. "Don't tell me you're scared of horses."

Although he'd meant this teasingly, he held his laughter once he realised she wasn't even a _little_ troubled by it. No, she was too preoccupied, and that did not bode well.

"No..." she replied, shaking her head, stepping back as the horse shifted slightly. "I... uh... I just..." She glanced to him quickly, and for a moment he thought she was blushing, although he doubted that. "I... don't know how to ride a horse."

Where Gilraen had expected him to click his tongue or roll his eyes in frustration, she was surprised to hear laughter. Looking to him, she saw the first genuine smile since they'd argued in his throne room – albeit one at her expense. "_Really?_" He asked. "How does one go this long without learning to ride?"

"I just... never learned," she replied, continuing when he raised an eyebrow curiously. "I grew up in the cities and didn't have much need for travel, and once I joined the scholars I always rode in a cart or carriage..." she exhaled, mumbling to herself, although it was still loud enough for Eomer to hear, "perhaps I should have rethought that before coming to _Rohan,_ of all places..."

"Well," he laughed, shaking his head and approaching her, "as a Horse Lord, I suppose it's my duty to teach you."

Gilraen gave a nod. "Yes, I suppose it would be best to learn from a-" realising his hand was on her arm and leading her, her voice was lost in surprise. "W-what are you doing?" She asked as he led her towards his own horse.

"Teaching you to ride a horse," Eomer explained, matter of factly, moving to stand behind the somewhat bewildered scholar. No. No, _surely_ he wasn't going to lift her onto his own horse. Gilraen's eyes widened at the thought of this – Eomer's horse was far bigger than the one he'd given her, and was _far_ more intimidating.

"Surely there's a better way than tHIS!" She gave a scream mid-speech as his hands gripped her waist and lifted her up and onto the back of the beast. To add insult to injury, the sound of her squeal had drawn laughter from those in the stables, as well as Eomer. Holding onto the front of the saddle, Gilraen gave an indignant sigh and used her free hand to brush her hair from her face, Eomer placing his foot into a stirrup.

"It's how my father taught me, and if it's good enough for me, it's good enough for you." With that, he pulled himself up and onto the back of the saddle. While Eomer had initially enjoyed the idea of Gilraen's terror on the back of his own mount, one which practically dwarfed her, he hadn't had enough foresight to realise that it would also mean having to share a horse with her for the _entire_ duration of what would probably be a long journey – something which, evidently, Gilraen had _also_ come to realise.

"So we're to share your horse for the entire journey?" She asked.

He gave a nod, clenching his jaw. "You need to learn to command your horse before you can ride on your own." He thanked the gods who watched them that she was just as uncomfortable, Gilraen deliberately leaning slightly forward to avoid as much contact as possible. However, despite his dislike of the situation he had admittedly put himself in, Eomer resigned himself to do this properly. The faster she learned, the sooner he could trust her with her own horse to make her own journeys _without_ him. "We'll ride into the fields before I give you the reigns. I don't want you killing any of the smallfolk on our way out."

"I'm sure this is set to be a pleasant trip," she groaned, trying her best to ignore the fact that the King of The Mark was sharing his horse with her, that his arms were around her to reach the reigns, and that nearly every young woman in Edoras that they passed seemed to be seething with jealously.


	4. Troublesome

"No, you need to actually _pull_ on the reigns, not just... do you even know what the word 'pull' means?"

Gilraen gave an audible groan, her frustration boiling over with this jibe from Eomer. In his defence, Eomer was _just_ as frustrated. Either she was deliberately ignoring his instructions or she was the single most incompetent woman in the world. They should have returned to Edoras hours ago but her incompetence had caused them to delay, and now the sky was dark from both nightfall and the swell of storms above. "I don't want to _hurt_ the horse, though," she argued, wind blowing her hair in her face. She growled under her breath as she tried to brush it out of her vision.

Succumbing to his lack of patience, Eomer leaned forward, all care for personal space thrown to the same wind that was blinding her with her own hair as he took the reigns from her hands. "This horse has seen war, even _you_ cannot do it harm," he grunted, tugging on the chords of leather and bringing the horse to a stop. "You should braid your hair. It's troublesome."

"And you should wash your hands," she snapped, glancing to the dirt caked around his nails. "They're filthy."

"They are the hands of someone who knows what it's like to do _actual_ work instead of sitting inside and reading books and ignoring the world."

"Ignoring the world?" Gilraen repeated, jaw agape. "Have you forgotten I came here all the way from Gondor? It may not be a feat to _you,_ Your Grace, but for a woman who-"

"Shh," Eomer interrupted.

Gilraen gave an angry, singular laugh. "Excuse me? I may not be a noble, but I do still deserve and _expect_ some form of respe-"

A hand covered her mouth and she quickly inhaled in shock. "Shh," he spoke again, and although Gilraen felt her rage boiling inside her, it was quickly extinguished. "We are not alone."

Silence. Just as he had ordered. His hand still to her mouth, Gilraen listened along with him, wondering what he was talking about. All she could hear was the roar of the wind, and the rustling of the grass below them and the trees in the distance. She was sure he was right, and she was suddenly too petrified to even move away his hand.

It felt like an eternity before he spoke again, having removed his hand from her face to grab at the reigns. He loosened them, kicking at his horses sides. "Orcs," was all he said as they took off into the most frightening experience of Gilraen's life, causing her to hold on to the front of the saddle for dear life.

"I thought they were all gone!" She called, turning her head a little to try and catch a glimpse. She wished she hadn't. Sure enough, a band gave chase. It was small, but it was more than enough to strike a cold dread into her chest. There were only two, but she didn't know how to fight, and she had no doubt that by sharing the saddle, she was slowing their horse down.

Surely enough, the duo began to close in on them, Eomer looking back every now and then to check the distance. It was then Gilraen realised they were riding _away_ from Edoras, into the woods. "What are you doing?!" She cried. "This isn't the way back!"

"If I lead them back," he began, taking the spear from the side of the saddle and twisting at the waist, hurling it at one of their assailants. The spear drove through the orc's chest with the force of a hammer, throwing the beast off of it's own mount, the remaining attacker giving a roar of anger. "...It will cause panic amongst the smallfolk," he explained, turning back to return his attention forward. To Gilraen's surprise, he gave a small laugh. "One is more than easy enough to-"

Just as she had turned silent when he had covered her mouth, Eomer fell silent with a suddenness that caused her to panic. Before she could glance back to him, however, felt felt him against her, falling forward, the two coming away from the saddle beneath them as they slipped. Gilraen felt something hard as stone strike her cheek, and although she screamed, she fell away from it before it could do more damage.

The next thing she felt was the ground as she came onto it side-first, scrambling to clear herself of the horse's hooves almost instinctively. She covered her face with her hands, writhing as she finally took in all the sensations. The pain, the shock, the fright. She heard Eomer give a roar, followed by the sound of something hitting the ground. _Oh no,_ she thought. _Oh no, he has been__ killed__!_ A panic coursed through every inch of her as she opened her eyes and saw a mace beside her. Had that been what had struck them? Had the orc thrown that at them?

Gilraen could hear the footsteps and clinking of armour approaching her. Shaking, she reached out to the mace. Maybe the orc had been weakened. Maybe she could fight it off. Maybe she was dreaming. She wasn't sure what she'd do as she took the handle in her hand – she was barely strong enough to lift it.

"There'll be no need for that," a familiar voice ordered, ragged and breathy from exertion. She hesitantly rolled onto her back, looking up to the hand that offered itself to her. Eomer. He was okay. Relieve overwhelmed her, although she would _never_ admit that to him. "I told you one was easy enough to do away with." Gilraen took his hand and he helped her to stand, her vision still foggy from the shock of the blow. "Besides, what would you do, nag it to death?" Eomer began to laugh at his own joke, but stopped with an abrupt nature when he saw her remove her hand from her cheek. "You are hurt!"

She squeezed her eyes open and shut, trying to clear her vision, only to find herself looking at Eomer's shoulder. The armour had come away, and through what was left she was sure she saw blood. "So are you," she replied.

"It is nothing," he dismissed. "It is not my first broken bone, and I doubt it will be my last. But a lady's face, however..."

Instinctively, she raised her hand, gesturing for him to stop. "Your injury must be seen to. Stop being childish."

He looked up, raising his free hand to feel for raindrops – and although Gilraen was yet to feel one, she instantly knew that the blackening clouds above and the wind were predictions of a storm. "Fine. But we need to take shelter."

"Where is the horse?" She asked, looking around. "Will it not come back?"

He shook his head, reaching down to pick his sword up from the ground. "Fled when that orc hurled that mace at us," he explained, wiping the black blood from the blade against his trousers before re-sheathing it. "It will not return here, but it will return to Edoras. My men will know to find me when they realise I am not with my own horse."

Gilraen looked around as she, too, began to feel the cold spikes of rain on her shoulders. Shelter. Shelter. There had to be _something_ they could... a grin overtook her face. Although she was seeking materials to _build_ something, her eyes had instead come across a cave opening. It was small and it was low, but it would do for now. "There," she instructed, pointing towards it. "That cave."

He gave a nod, making his way in it's direction. "Well spotted. If only your horseback riding was as good as your eyesight."

* * *

The cave had proven more suited to their needs than either of them had anticipated, and it left Gilraen feeling a little uncomfortable. Although the _mouth_ of the cave looked small, once inside, the cave opened up to a decent size – something that someone else had at discovered at some point as well. In the centre was a fire pit, and there was plenty of kindling strewn around the cave, along with piles of hay that looked as though they'd been used for sleeping at some stage.

"I wonder who used this cave in the past..." Gilraen asked once she'd convinced Eomer to sit, taking the hem of her dress and cutting at it using one of his blades. On closer inspection of his shoulder, it would be fine for the time being, but it would need to be in a sling. "Criminals?" She asked, trying to make polite conversation.

She could feel him withholding a shrug as she positioned his arm, beginning to tie the makeshift sling. "Criminals or lovers, maybe." Eomer laughed when her caught her giving him a passing glare. "Why not? It's the perfect place, secluded and away from prying eyes."

Gilraen gave a final and deliberately firm tug at the knot that would hold the sling. "_Don't_ get any ideas," she warned, not an ounce of humour in her voice before she turned and walked away, her next point of call being the collection of the stray kindling for a fire. It was getting cold, and the storm outside was getting increasingly rough.

"My sweet Gilly," he announced, shifting where he sat as he watched her, "I would sooner proposition an orc than even _consider_ such acts with you."

"It's _Gilraen,_" she replied in what was practically a hiss. There was an incredibly long silence between them, the only sounds being that of Gilraen's kindling clinking about in her arms and that of the thunder and rain outside.

"Where did you learn this?" Eomer finally asked once she had gathered enough kindling and turned her attention to the fire itself, looking to the makeshift sling that now held his left arm, an eyebrow raised. "I did not take you for a nurse."

Gilraen shook her head as she opened the satchel she carried. After a few moments of rummaging through parchments and papers, she removed a tinderbox, kneeling beside the pile of tinder she'd collected. "When you read as many books as a Scholar does, you eventually find yourself with an acquired knowledge of the basics of tending to wounds."

"You should have been a nurse instead," he suggested. "You're quite good at it."

"I'm also quite good at studying," she replied, smiling as a spark from the flint finally caught.

Eomer watched as she leaned in, blowing at the small embers to further ignite them. He was intrigued at how much she'd managed to learn from books, things he'd always thought were best acquired from practical knowledge. "Why a Scholar?" He asked her. "Obviously you enjoy books and being surrounded by dust, I understand that, but what leads a young lady to join..." he trailed off when he noticed her eyes rise to meet his.

For a moment she was silent, before she gave a small smirk of her own. "What would lead a young lady to join an institute of old men?" Gilraen looked back down to the fire, which was beginning to flame, and began to place more twigs in it.

"At least you acknowledged it." He shot her a smile, one larger than the one she reciprocated with.

"I had little choice," she spoke, pausing to take a large piece of firewood with her hands and push it into the now blooming fire. "My family was poor. Even though we lived in the slums, we survived. There was enough for us to eat and keep warm and the first 12 years of my life were uneventful." She tilted her head and inspected the fire's progress, adding more of the dry grass she'd collected to it. "It all changed when my mother fell ill. She passed away and suddenly half the coin was gone. My father had two young boys and me, and I was... a liability, I suppose."

"Liability?" He asked.

"The boys would eventually bring an income once they were old enough to be put to work. Myself? Too young to work any reputable job, too young to be married off before I became a drain on the household. So he sold me."

Eomer gave a blink. "He _sold_ you?" He repeated. "That... cannot be legal."

Gilraen shook her head. "No, it wasn't. But the lower your class, the less it's about honour and the more it's about surviving. The bathhouse wanted more girls and my father wanted to relieve himself of dead weight and gain some coin. I was worth 5 pieces of gold and 12 bronze. ...I remember that exchange... vividly."

"I assume you did not..." he trailed off, thinking of a delicate way to put it.

"No," she replied. "I didn't. I ran away the first night I was there, long before they could put a price on my..." she paused, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. "...We both know what they do to young women in those places when they first arrive." Shaking her head, and finally content with her fire, she began to warm her hands by it. "I spent a few nights on the streets, but I heard that the Scholars could offer me more than scraps, and when you're that desperate, you quickly learn to use your advantages. I was smart, I could read and write, and if I hadn't acknowledged that when I did, I'd probably not be where I am today."

"I cannot believe a man would sell his daughter," Eomer remarked, his voice quite, a darkness to it that took her by surprise. It was something she'd yet to hear from him.

Quickly blinking and shaking her head, she looked back to her fire. "I would not expect you to be aware of such things. Life for the small folk is... _vastly_ different to that of the nobles. Although, I would suppose things were better in Edoras. Life in Gondor was unkind before the King Elessar returned to us."

Eomer shook his head. "No, no, we would never allow that in Rohan."

"It wasn't a matter of allowing it," she explained, using a stick to stoke at the fire, moving quickly so it wouldn't catch. "There are laws against it. Believe me, it was the first thing I looked up when I was left alone in the libraries. But laws can only account for so much when your Steward is more concerned with matters of pride than his own people."

Another silence followed, but this one wasn't nearly as tense. If anything, it was peaceful, in a sad way. "For what it's worth," Eomer eventually spoke over the thunder from outside, "I'm sorry that was allowed to happen to you."

She paused, her eyes set in the fire. "You shouldn't be," she replied, taking him by surprise for a moment. "You're a good King. I know you wouldn't allow your people to become that desperate."

For the first time since they'd met, Gilraen and Eomer found themselves coming to an understanding – and both of them were surprised by how much they liked the feeling of not fighting for once.


	5. The Romantic Fantasy

Even with the fire going, Gilraen found herself shivering that night. She was too scared to move her makeshift bed of hay towards the fire in case it caught, and her dress was nowhere near warm enough to keep her warm in her sleep.

After what felt like hours, she sat up, quietly moving towards the fire that still burned. Half asleep, she sat next to it, almost blissful by it's warmth, her eyes slowly opening and closing. She couldn't sleep next to the fire, no, but she could stay warm until it was enough for her to crawl back to her straw bed and sleep until the sun rose or Eomer's men found them. Whatever came first.

"Gilly," a voice groaned, the sound of shuffling hay. "Are you alright?"

Too tired to follow her first instinct and argue the proper pronunciation of her name, Gilraen gave a dreamy nod, not turning from the fire. "Just cold." Her eyes felt almost as though they had sand in them, and her cheek was throbbing in the most sharp sting. It crossed her fatigued mind that it may be broken, but she wasn't alert enough to worry. _I'll worry about it in the morning,_ she thought.

She heard the sound of rustling hay once more. "Come here," he began. "My cloak works as a blanket, we'll be warmer together."

This finally broke through her exhaustion to get to her, causing her to quickly turn and stare at him, her tired eyes thin with sleepless paranoia. "I'm not..." she paused suddenly, rubbing her eyes. So sleepy. "I'm not that kind of woman."

"I wouldn't suggest it," he sighed, shifting underneath the cloak. To be fair, it _did_ look quite warm. No doubt it was lined with some kind of fur, and it would be a sight warmer than just the cloth dress she wore. "I wouldn't even suggest _this,_ but I don't want you to die of exposure." He gave a yawn. "That would look terrible."

"...Are you _sure?_" She asked, already shifting to move.

"My repayment for the sling you fixed me."

Without another word, Gilraen gave a nod and rose from her spot, moving to the Horse Lord's makeshift bed and laying beside him. He threw the cloak over her, and it was in mere moments that she drifted off to sleep, Eomer rolling on his side to face away from her as he too drifted away into slumber.

If only the women in Gondor could see her now. She was practically living a fantasy, spending time with not only one of the brash, passionate Horse Lords that they loved to talk about so much – but their _king._ Alone in a cave with him, sharing a bed, albeit one make of hay and a cloak. Although, honestly, she supposed _someone_ probably found that romantic.

Not that Gilraen cared for that sought of thing, however. Her life was her studies, and the only men who really gave her the time of day in her towers of books were so old that they thought her a child. Come to think of it, Eomer was probably the first man under 50 she'd had a full conversation with in months... and he didn't even like her. He thought her insufferable, she knew that much, although she had quickly come to accept it and even reciprocate those feelings. Maybe if she were a different woman, she'd be upset by that. But Gilraen was who she was, and she didn't attach any of her value to the affections of men who, by all means, probably weren't even close to how learned she was.

Somewhere in the course of the bitterly cold, rainy night, Eomer rolled in his sleep, and with instincts clouded by exhaustion, moved his arm to lay over the curve of her waist – and the sleeping scholar didn't object, because it felt just _right._

And even when Eomer snapped awake in the early hours before the sunrise, and although he'd never admit it, he couldn't bring himself to move away. Not as long as she was allowing him.

* * *

_Short chapter, but I liked it this way. Fight me, bro. (Just kidding. I love you.)_


	6. Straw

Although on a bed of straw, Gilraen felt that this had been the best she'd slept in years. Eomer hadn't lied about it being warmer. It wasn't the stinging heat of the fire, but instead a gentle warmth that surrounded her form. Despite her dislike of Eomer, his closeness _did_ make her feel somewhat safer. The rhythmic breath against her next was soothing, and the arm around her waist...

Gilraen's eyes snapped open. Oh god. Oh god, _no._

"Y-your Grace..." she stammered, her eyes wide and her body stiff. He gave a slight groan, still very much asleep, much to her frustration. "..._Eomer!_" She snapped, her tone still low as though someone may have been there to hear them. Finally giving a _bwuh_ of acknowledgement, the King awakened, although _how_ awake was up for debate. "...Your Grace," she continued, "I may not know how to swing a sword or fire a bow, but I am _very_ knowledgeable in an array of poisons and I swear to the Valar that if you do not move your arm immediately, I will poison every last drop of ale in your stores."

He gave a long, tired sigh and rolled away, tightly blinking his eyes awake. "You're welcome, it was a _pleasure_ to share my bed with you."

"If you could call it a bed," she snapped, stumbling away from him and only the ground, bringing herself to stand. "And just because we shared a _cloak_ does _not_ entitle you to-"

"Alright, alright!" He shouted over the top of her, his annoyance plain as the daylight that spilled from the mouth of the cave. "I'm sorry that my arm found its way to your flimsy excuse for a waist. Will you _please_ stop nagging me?"

Gilraen tensed her jaw, taken aback by the insult, even as petty as it was. "Flimsy excuse?" She repeated. "What is _that_ meant to mean?"

Eomer's voice was slightly muffled, his face covered by the crook of his elbow as he slung his arm over it, seemingly to block out the daylight. "You're all skin and bone," he replied, "it was like sleeping next to a peace of gristle. God help whatever man you might manage to trick into marrying you one day."

"Skin and bone?" Gilraen gave a laugh, one that admittedly surprised the Horse Lord a little. She may have not had much interaction with men since her young womanhood, and she may not have laid much stock in her appeal to the opposite sex, but she knew _that_ was not true about her one bit. "Your Grace, as a guest I am obligated to stay polite and humble, but as a _scholar,_ I am obligated to state fact – and you have to be the single most unpleasant, boorish, arrogant excuse for a man I have ever had the misfortune of dealing with."

"And _you,_" he growled, "have to be the closest thing to an actual Banshee I have ever encountered. Tell me, was your father one of the Nazgul? Or is the resemblance just an unfortunate coincidence?"

At that moment, the two fell silent, another sound taking their attention. The calling of Eomer's name, the sound of hooves treading through soil. His men had finally arrived in search of their King. This and this alone seemed like enough to finally cause him to rise, collecting his cloak and heading for the mouth of the cave. "I have half a mind to leave you here and be free of you," he muttered as Gilraen began to follow.

"I dare you to do that and then explain it to the Scholars when they ask you why I've stopped writing." She smirked. "I _dare_ you."

Eomer either was trumped by this challenge or not willing to enter into it as they left the cave, and a total silence followed between them as he flagged down the search party. In fact, he didn't even _look_ at her, he was so angry with her. How could she possibly be so pretentious? That was it, he decided. As of that moment he would be washing his hands of her. Someone else could deal with her, one of his advisors, anyone but himself. So much as looking at her was enough to make him tense his jaw in anger.

And then, as he saddled a horse that had been brought for him, he caught sight of her being lifted onto the back of one of his men's for the ride home, and realised just how the night had effected her. No longer was she immaculately clean and polished, but covered in mud and dirt. Her usually well-kept hair was dishevelled, and in some of the locks were pieces of straw. She wasn't perfect at all, and it reminded him of how they got along the night before.

He spent the rest of the ride to Edoras unable to take his eyes from her.

* * *

While Gilraen had many, _many_ complains about Edoras, one thing she did truly love was the study they had arranged for her. It was dark, it was quiet, and she was completely alone in there. Nothing but her and whatever she had to write or draw. This was the only thing better than the warm bath she'd taken on their arrival back, and although translating old Rohirric wasn't how she'd ideally planned this evening, she also didn't want to be _anywhere_ she might run into Eomer.

All she had to do in her study was write, draw, translate, and try her best to forget about the brief moment of contentment she felt when she realised that his arm had found his way around her. For a brief moment that morning, she'd _enjoyed_ his touch. Just the thought of that made her angry. How could she feel anything but disdain for such a man? She was much better than that.

"You never finished your story."

The line she was drawing jolted away from her as she jolted in surprise, gasping and scrambling to stop her ink well from knocking over. When her eyes settled on the doorway, her surprise completely faded and turned into pure disdain. "What story?" She asked, rolling her eyes and trying to correct her mistake, and hoping that Eomer would bore himself and go back to shouting for no reason or charming women or _whatever_ it was he did in his spare time.

"Yours," he replied, making his way inside and causing Gilraen to stifle a groan. "How you joined the Scholars."

"I joined the Scholars and that was the end of it," she said in a completely monotonous tone. "Unfortunately, my stories are not like yours. They aren't full of violence and heroics and laying with virgins pure. If you want those you should return to your men."

"Why did they take you in?"

Her hand, which had once been scrawling away seemingly of its own will, came to a complete stop. "...Excuse me?"

Eomer shrugged. "Why did the Scholars take you in? I know they start young, but from my understanding they select children from schoolhouses. I imagine they can't just take in every urchin that comes to their door..."

"Because I refused otherwise," she snapped, slamming her quill in the ink well with a force that even caused Eomer to flinch. "They turned me away and I refused to leave. They tried to bribe me with food and I would not eat, and I would not take the gold they attempted to give me in exchange for my leave. I very nearly starved until their House Master decided to take pity on me. I was welcomed inside, but only as a their maid."

"And yet, you are now a Scholar," he observed.

"I took every opportunity to learn where I could. I stole books and read in the dark. I listened in on their discussions and classes and paid _very_ special attention to their instructions on the elvish language." Gilraen gave a sudden, proud smirk. "It took a year or so, but I will _never_ forget their faces when they saw the maid contribute to one of their philosophical discussions, let alone in the Sindarin. Sometimes I think about it when I feel sad. Cheers me up."

Eomer shifted from foot to foot, frowning, but in concern more than displeasure. "I hadn't taken you for vindictive."

Gilraen shook her head, crossing her arms. "Not vindictive. Determined. They had a shortage of women and were in desperate need of them in order to conduct proper studies of... women's concerns. I just had to give them the right push." She looked downwards, chewing on her lip for only a moment before speaking once more. "I suppose once my father decided he could do with me as he wished, I decided that it wouldn't happen again."

"Some would call that a thirst for control," he commented.

"If you had been stripped of all you were and reduced to no more than mere livestock for sale, you'd be much more protective of your own agency, too."

Eomer nodded, lifting an old book up and examining it in the candle light, wondering _how_ she could work like this. "Perhaps you're right. But do you truly have control?" He asked. "Scholars cannot marry."

"We can if we leave the order."

"But would you?" He asked. "I've never seen a woman love a man as much as you seem to love dusty old parchments."

Her eyes rolling once more, she reached out for her quill again. "Find me one worth my affections and I can demonstrate. Until then, I prefer to be left alone, thank you."

There was a pause, the only sound between them being the sound of her quill scratching on her parchment. Eomer eventually cleared his throat, hoping she might stop to look up at him – however, he hoped in vain. "I am sorry for how I behaved last night," he began, the only discernible reaction from Gilraen being a raised eyebrow as she continued to write. "It was... you explained it quite clearly."

"...Thank you," Gilraen still did not look up from her work.

"As show of my apology, there will be a feast tomorrow night, and I wish for you to attend as my guest."

Gilraen gave a chuckle, glancing to him momentarily before shaking her head. "I am honoured, Your Grace, but parties aren't really my idea of a good time, in case you hadn't noticed."

"It is a great honour to be invited as a guest of the King," he added, his voice firm. Gilraen froze, taking a deep breath. _Damnit._ He'd done this on purpose, hadn't he? To refuse his invitation would be not only a great dishonour, but an insult, and at the end of the day, even through her anger, she had to remember she was still here as a representative of the Scholars.

"...Of course, Your Grace," she replied, defeated. "I would be honoured." She smiled at him, gritting her teeth. So _this_ would be his revenge, would it? Well. He had another thing coming. Gilraen decided on the spot she was going to enjoy that feast so much that the Horse Lords would talk of her for years to come. She was not only going to _enjoy_ herself, but she was going to make everyone remember exactly how much fun she had. To be miserable and her usual self in such a situation would be letting him win.

And she wasn't going to let Eomer take victory. Not now, not ever.

* * *

_Thanks so much for all the comments and feedback, everyone! As you can see I've been taking some of it on board, and I'm sorry if the updates are sporadic. Work, unfortunately, does not encourage me to write fanfiction on the clock. But yeah, thanks! I love you. Sorry I'm not more coherent in these notes. It's like, 2am._


	7. Clarity

Gilraen's hands wrung at her skirts as she wandered into the hall. She hadn't expected so many women to be here. Or, well, she had, but...

She dodged one as the flung herself in a dance from one man to another soldier, falling into his arms as he swung her around. Gilraen watched from the corner of her eye, feeling a little out of place as the woman laughed and twirled about, tipping some of her ale into the soldier's mouth. These women were all fair haired and buxom, with dresses that were tight in the waist and much more flattering than her own. While Gilraen had at least _tried_ to dress up, it appeared her definition of 'dressing up' was somewhat lacking. Perhaps this was due to the fact that she'd spent most of her life living with the Scholars, a group of mostly old men who could, honestly, care less how she dressed. In fact, if anything, they _encouraged_ her to be a little dowdy. Less distraction for them, perhaps. Who knew? They weren't telling her, anyway, that was for sure.

She glanced from woman to woman as she approached the table where Eomer sat, a free seat beside him kept for her. The fact she was the 'guest' made her even more nervous. Everyone would look at her, and while she'd at the very least lined her eyes, she hadn't gone to _half_ the effort these other women had. They had painted their lips and pinched their cheeks to pinks, while Gilraen was nothing but a mess of pale skin with patches of light sunburn. What she did have on these women, though, she decided, was nice hair. For the feast she'd decided to put it up, wrapping it in a bun. The other women just let theirs fall beyond their shoulders, but Gilraen's looked neat and proper. If she could have pride in anything, it was that she had at least an ounce of decorum about her.

"Gilly!" a voice roared over the music and drunken singing. She took a deep breath. Eomer had spotted her. Now she definitely couldn't back out.

Giving a faint smile, she approached the long table where he sat, coming to a stop by the free seat, which some form of servant pulled out for her to sit in. "Gilraen," she quietly corrected, not looking him in the eye as she did so.

Eomer received this with a smirk. "Why do you hate my nickname for you so?" He asked. "Nicknames are a sign of affection."

"We're hardly close enough for nicknames," she replied, looking out over the dancing guests as a servant poured her a glass of wine.

"I've slept beside you. Some would classify that as _very close." _Gilraen responded merely with a thin gaze directed at him. If looks could kill, Eomer would be slain by her. He gave another of his smirks as she turned her attention back to the festivities, and he felt his eyes drawn to her neck, something he'd never noticed under the mess of her long hair. It was long and slender, as delicate as the rest of her looked, and there was something incredibly appetitive about getting a glimpse at it. "You should wear your hair up more often," he remarked, bringing his eyes down back to his ale and taking a drink.

"Why?" Gilraen asked, reaching for her own cup. He found himself taking in the sight of her wrist as it peeked out from beneath her sleeves. He'd never noticed those either, nor her hands. Did she usually wear tighter sleeves and gloves to hide away her willowy fingers? He'd never noticed how graceful her form could be, almost as though she were an elf with more padding – the good kind. The kind that had made her soft and pleasant to sleep beside, despite what he may have said to her in the heat of his frustration.

"Looks good," Eomer shrugged it off. "You look less like a witch of the wilds, more like a lady."

She took a careful sip of her drink, keeping to a timing that was predetermined in her head. "You do _so_ know how to charm your guests."

"So I should not expect you to dance with me, then?"

Gilraen had been mid-sip of her drink as he said this, and despite her calculated movements, lurched forward in surprise, covering her hand to stop herself from spitting. Was he being serious? She glanced to him, her eyes accidentally wide, a panic striking her. "Your Grace, you..." Pausing and taking a hold of her composure, Gilraen shook her head, setting her hands down. "Very funny. I suppose you torment all your guests like this?"

"Torment?" He asked. "I am serious. You are my guest, and I wish to be seen entertaining you as such."

"I... uh..." she shifted uncomfortably. He _was_ serious. "I'm not sure..."

Eomer leaned in, an eyebrow raised. "Do not think it an intimate gesture," he laughed. "I ask you as a matter of diplomacy." A lie, of course. He'd seen her from across the room and caught the sight of her her dress hung on her form. Despite his distaste for her general manner, he certainly wasn't going to say _no_ to the chance of touching that waist in a dance, and maybe the music would drag out her incessant nagging.

Looking between him and the floor of dancing men and women, Gilraen gave a sigh. She wanted to say no, but she also didn't wish to offend. _Why_ she wanted to save him offence was beyond her, but she suspected it might have something to do with the nagging and ever clinging feeling of contentment she'd woken up with when she'd felt his arm around her that morning. Perhaps, she thought, if she could just get through this evening, she could ignore him for the rest of her assignment and shake it off. "Fine," she bluntly agreed, before taking her cup and taking it down in one fine throwback – much to Eomer's surprise. "Let's get this over with."

As they made there way around the long table, he attempted to take her arm, but she pulled away. The less time she had to be linked to him, the better, and she planned on avoiding all physical contact with him until they _had_ to for the purpose of the dance.

When they finally came to the point where physical contact was required, the whispers began. He linked his arm with hers and she heard a whisper from an onlooker about their disappearance in the storm. "Aren't Gondorian women meant to be _graceful?_" A voice asked, hushed and low as they watched the King and the Scholar. Gilraen glanced to Eomer, and she could have _sworn_ he'd smirked at it. He was _enjoying_ it! As they came to the edge of the floor, a man commented on how she looked like a matron, and not at all like a mistress. This comment took her so off guard that she stumbled, catching one of her feet on the other and leaving Eomer to catch her.

There were a few small gasps from the onlookers as the others continued to dance on, followed by more chatter. By now, her face was burning, and for all her anger and determination to rise above it, she felt as though... she could feel it. Her throat was tightening, her chest sinking, her eyes watering. "Are you alright?" he asked her as she stood back upright, genuine concern in his words.

Gilraen shook her head, stepping back and taking her arms from his hands. "I... I believe I've forgotten something urgent..." she stammered. "Please, excuse me." She backed away before turning and quickly moving past the other dancers and through the crowd, making a beeline for the doors that led into the halls.

She carefully lifted the back of her hand to underneath her eye to catch a stray tear before it could fall down her face. She'd done it now. Humiliated herself _and_ insulted the King of Rohan in the process. She made her way to her chambers, thinking only of finding some parchment and a writing set to write home with. Perhaps the Scholars Council would be kind and accept her resignation from this position as enough punishment if she _admitted_ her unsuitability before they found out about it second hand.

Rummaging through her belongings to find the right parchments, her mind raced. She _hated_ it here, and Rohan hated her, she was sure of it. No one seemed to like her. Not the people, not the soldiers, not the King – _especially_ not Eomer. She was silly to come here, silly to-

"I hope I'm not intruding," came Eomer's voice from her doorway.

"You are." She was blunt, having found the parchments and now searching for her seals. "Perhaps it would be best for us to speak tomorrow, Your Grace."

There was a short silence, one she hoped was because he was leaving, but her hopes were soon dashed. "You are upset. Did I offend you?"

Giving a sigh and slamming her parchments on her small writing desk, she shook her head. "_No._ You did not. Now, if you'll excuse me, I-"

"Gilraen." She froze. His voice was firm, not with the usual hint of sarcasm weaved throughout. No. This was the voice she heard him use before, when they'd been in danger – and he'd used her name _properly._ "We are not close friends, but I know you well enough to know that you're far too stubborn a woman to forfeit in the middle of _anything,_ even a dance."

She paused for a moment, considering arguing – but she knew he'd seen through her. "Close the door," she spoke under her breath, dropping her shoulders. "There are enough rumours, apparently. God forbid anyone should see us together in our chambers."

"Ah," he chuckled, shutting the doors. "So it was the _court's_ doing, then?" He shook his head. "Pay no mind to them. They are bored, I am unmarried, and they will assume I'm involved with any woman who I so much as glance at in passing."

"Except for me," she grumbled, leaning against the writing desk with her arms crossed.

He shrugged. "You aren't _that_ bad."

"They said I look like a matron."

At this, Eomer flattened his lips together, a look of reluctant agreement all over his face. "You..." he spoke slowly, selecting his words _very_ carefully, "...have your _own_ manner of dress, yes."

"I should never have come here," she continued. "I don't fit in. The Scholar's Council warned me I wasn't suited and they were right. I'm not liked by anyone here-"

"I like you."

At this, Gilraen merely raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "I'm resigning from my post, Your Grace. There's no need to pay me false flattery."

Eomer shook his head. "I'm being sincere. You are often pig-headed and pretentious, and you nag incessantly, but... you're smart, smarter than most of my own men, and even though you might _seem_ like a banshee at times, you do care about other people underneath." He paused. "And you look good when you're messy."

"Messy?" She asked.

"After we spent that night in the cave," he explained, "you were a mess. Your face was dirty, your hair had straw in it – but it looked good on you, the marks of adventure. Not a lot of women can claim that. You're well suited to your work. It's a shame you lock yourself up with books all day."

"A shame?" It was here turn to smirk now. "As though books aren't adventures?"

"And what book can provide me the same kind of adventure I've seen?" He asked.

Gilraen pushed herself away from the desk, moving to a small pile of books by her dresser and taking one from the top, running her fingers along the spine and giving a fond smile. "Perhaps nothing will be the same for you, but books will tell the rest of us what it was like. They'll teach our children, and even your own descendants one day. Here," she offered the book out to Eomer, who glanced between her and the cover. "It's called _The Quest of Erebor_. It's about the Dwarves who-"

"Who rode to Erebor and reclaimed the Kingdom Under the Mountain?" He asked. "Yes, I know the story."

"But have you read it?" She asked, still holding the book to him, waving it a little until he took it in his hands. "It is one thing to _hear_ a story, but another to read it. It's like you're experiencing it, like you know the Dwarves as you would a good friend."

"You like this book, then?" he asked, looking at the cover closely.

"It's one of my favourites." She exhaled. "The songs they sing, the lands they visit, the torment of poor Thorin to become so desperate to reclaim his land. The way the dragon seems to frighten me through the pages, even though I must read it at least once a year. It's as though I can hear them sing, not just read the words but _hear_ them. And when-"

Once again, Eomer cut her off, but not in the way she would have expected. Her eyes automatically closed when his lips pressed against hers, her body going on autopilot, her palms moving to his chest in surprise – if she was pushing him away or pulling him closer, she wasn't sure.

It was a quick kiss, not rough, not gentle, but firm enough to prove its sincerity. He parted himself from her, looking to her with a look of almost vulnerability, as if he was asking her for permission. Would this continue from here? Gilraen's eyes widened in shock and confusion. Why had he _kissed_ her? She thought he hated her – and she hated him in return for it, that there was someone she found so brave and tall and fine to look at who didn't feel the same about her.

Although, did this mean he _did_ feel the same about her? Why else would he have kissed her? It was as though the kiss had unlocked whatever part of her she'd hidden all her fleeting feelings inside, and there was a sudden clarity as she gazed up to him. The softness that was hidden in those often stern or mean expressions, the gentleness with which his rough and worn hands held her. Most of all, though, Gilraen noticed for the first time the way he looked at her. Not with disdain or disbelief as she may have once thought, but like he was looking at something as interesting as her books were to her.

"...I'm sorry," he began, shaking his head, his voice almost a whisper as he moved to step back. "I should lea-"

Gilraen, who had not moved her hands from his chest, suddenly gripped at the fabric of his shirt. He froze when she did this. "No," she said, stepping towards him to be closer together. Standing on her toes to bring herself to his height, she gently took his lips with hers, this kiss longer and lingering than the last. Not one of impulse, but one of affection. Her head was swimming, and her limbs felt heavy and light at the same time, and her hips tingled where his hands rested. But even in the mist that clouded her mind, one thought was clear.

"Stay."

* * *

_Hope ya'll are ready for a bit of smut because uh hehehe_


	8. Unobtainable

"I hate you," she whispered between kisses, their lips brushing as she spoke and his fingers frantically untied the front of her dress. "I hate you so much."

He seized her lips with his again, their kisses short and rushed, frantic between heavy breathing, her fingers laced in his hair, wishing he'd hurry with the laces already. She did hate him. So much. She hated how he spoke, how he laughed, everything about him – she hated it all because it all drove her wild, no matter how much she tried to deny it. It had been simmering beneath her skin this entire time. "I hate you even more," he replied, almost in a murmur as be broke their chain of kisses to look down to see what he was doing. "You come to my lands, challenge me at every turn, wear dresses that are just..." he paused, giving a final tug on the cord that held the front secure, "...impossible."

Moving his hands from her, he allowed the dress to fall down her arms, revealing her form. There was little underneath spare for simple, white underclothes that rested on her hips, her breasts entirely without cover. Feeling a little exposed, she moved to cover herself with her arm, but stopped when his hands came to rest on them, his eyes looking down her form, drinking it all in as though he'd never seen anything more appetising. "You are..."

He paused, their eyes meeting again, and in that moment he didn't need to finish his sentence. She moved forward, grabbing him by his shirt and pulling him back towards her, their lips meeting again, their kisses hungrier than before. Her breasts pressed against his chest, the cloth of his shirt between them, causing him to sigh in what was a mix of arousal and frustration. Not needing further prompting, she grabbed the hem of the shirt and lifted it up, passing it above his head and tossing it aside. _Now_ they were skin to skin. He was so warm, and she so soft, his hand roaming over her back and taking in the curves and dip at the small of her back.

"I..." he stammered, his breathing heavy, his voice low, "I have lost myself. If you are not..."

She smiled at this, somewhat touched that even despite the antagonistic tension between them, he was still, beneath it all, somewhat of a gentlemen. "No," she whispered, running her hands up his chest before bringing her fingers to lace behind his neck, her gaze catching his. "Keep going."

Leaning in to kiss her once more, he took her hand, leading her to his bed. Not breaking their string of kisses, he backed her against the edge, waiting for her to lower herself down, which she did, Eomer following, the two of them crawling backwards to the centre, not even waiting to reach the pillows before he had found himself centred over her. To his surprise, she reached downwards of her own accord, her fingers moving to his belt and fumbling at the clasp. "...Have you..." he looked to her with a raised brow. "Before?"

"I'm a Scholar, not a nun," she replied, smiling as the clasp came undone. Eomer would have expressed shock that she was anything but a maid given her dowdy nature, but the sight of her naked and smiling up at him was enough to refute that. She _definitely_ had a hidden appeal. She kissed him again, and as quickly as they'd found themselves in this situation, they were totally naked before each other, her posture poised for him, waiting for him.

The sound that escaped her lips as he entered her was heavenly, and he doubted for a moment that he'd be able to pace himself. There was something about this that made it more intense than most others he'd had. He watched her face as it flushed, her eyes gazing into his with what was almost an innocence and pleading nature, her lips parted, as though she wanted to speak yet was too overcome to bring herself to do it. Her hair was a mess.

They eased into a rhythm, his hand eventually finding the side of her thigh and gripping at it, bringing it up and over his side. She braced against him, her nails gently scratching against his shoulders with every movement. He sat up for a moment, wanting to see all of her as they did _everything_ they _weren't_ supposed to – the way her pale skin would flush red wherever he gripped at her, the manner in which her breasts would ever so gently shook with the rest of her body. He could have watched those forever. He was, after all, a man, but they were the perfect size, enough for him to cup perfectly in his hands, as though they were made for him. It was as though every _part_ of her was made for him.

"Eomer," she sighed, catching his breath and snatching it from his chest. Had she ever even called him by his own name before? Even if she had, it never would have been like _that._ He lowered himself back down to be over her, bringing his face to the space between her neck and shoulder.

"Say it again," he mumbled into her before assaulting her neck with his lips, her own breathing becoming sharp, her back arching into him. Oh, she liked _this._

Her body seizing up with every kiss and movement, her grip tightened, her nails digging into his back, eliciting a groan from him. "Eomer," she repeated, her voice a little louder, any caution she might have demonstrated thrown to the wind. His movements began to speed up and she gave another moan, a short one. "Oh god, Eomer..."

He suddenly grabbed at her hips, and in one swift, strong movement, rolled onto his back, bringing her on top of him. She froze, taken by surprise with a face that began to blush. "I..." she panted, looking downwards, a little embarrassed that she was _this_ exposed, even if they were...

"I love looking at you," he explained, his voice in a low tone, one that was almost a growl and would spark that short, tense jolt of heat through her chest and core. It was, however, apparent to him that she'd never exactly done _this_ kind of... thing before, despite what experiences she may have had. "Use your hips," he explained squeezing at hers where his hands still rested.

At first, Gilraen was hesitant, placing her hands on his own torso to brace herself. As firm as it was (much to her own pleasure,) she couldn't help but worry she may hurt him that way, even though she was probably half his weight, if that. Instead, she placed her hands over his where they rested on her sides, and using her thigh muscles, began to move her hips. She immediately felt the strain on her legs and began to wonder how they would hurt in the morning, but such thoughts were quickly washed away by the gentle yet building fire within her, the one that caused her to let her head toss back as she gave another moan. _This_ was good. He was filling her perfectly like this, and the way she was rolling her hips was... yes, Gilraen liked this. A lot.

She brought her head back up and looked down to him, biting her lip when their eyes caught. He gave a groan, taking her wrist and leading her down to kiss him, a hungry one, their mouths open and desperate to explore even more than they already had. "If you keep doing that..." he whispered through deep breaths, "I don't think this will go for much longer." He took her hips in his hands once more as she lay atop him, holding her in place as he began to move into her once more, but this time from beneath.

She gave a cry, burying her face in that same spot he'd kissed her earlier, whimpering into the nape of his shoulder. "I...I..." the rest of the sounds that came from her were unintelligible as she tried to warn him how close she was, but his pace was so fast and she was so caught up. However, he understood, he could _feel_ that she was on the edge, and as he pulled her chin up to kiss him and used his free hand to squeeze at her behind as hard as he could, she went over. Not with screams or curses as the other women he'd laid with had, but with sharp whimpers and moans in a combination that almost sounded like music.

It was when he attempted to kiss her again, only to be met with a moan against his own lips that he followed her, his arms wrapped around her and squeezing at her as tightly as he could without crushing her, growling into her hair as he held her close to him.

Exhausted, she lay atop him, the pair motionless spare for their breathing until he shifted, allowing her to move off him and lay beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. She reached out, grabbing at one of the blankets that they had ignored until now and pulling it over them before settling, drifting off peacefully, her mind and body weary.

Eomer watched her for a short time, brushing a few strands of her hair from her face before becoming satisfied that she was peacefully asleep. His eyes eventually moved about her room, looking over the bookshelves in the dark. She studied so many things. Maps, books, artefacts – it was a wonder she even had time to brush all of that hair she had. The Scholars were definitely dedicated though, he supposed. A life of study, of total dedication. A Scholar couldn't even marry without renouncing everything they'd worked for. It crossed his mind that by doing this, he'd put her assignment into jeopardy. While Eomer wasn't sure if the Scholars took an oath of chastity, he couldn't imagine they'd be okay with one of their Field Scholars laying with The King of Rohan out of wedlock. _No one_ would approve of that, why would they?

Perhaps that was what made it so desirable, that they weren't permitted to. That he was King and she was a Scholar, and their relationship was meant to be just that. That she would always be off limits, even if he _did_ wish to marry her one day, as unlikely as he assured himself that would be.

Although, as he drifted off to sleep himself, he may have admitted to himself that even as unlikely as it would be, he _could_ want her as a wife. Maybe he already did. But only a little.


End file.
